The bus got them into town just at opening time, a party of six. Reg and Laurie stood drinks, in honor of their emancipation. Then a civilian, who was several drinks ahead, insisted on standing pints all round, and on the strength of it decided to make a speech. He had a fine carrying voice, which reached to every corner of the bar.
“What do our lads ask?” he demanded, repeating it several times, and then pausing to savor the respectful silence. “Not a medal. Lads like these two here”—he made a large expanded gesture at Laurie and Reg—“they don’t ask to go up to Bucknam Palace and shake King George by the hand. They don’t want no disabled badge to wear, they don’t need it. Anyone only got to look at these two lads, he can see for himself. And what do they ask, that’s what I ask you? What do they ask? Only a square deal, a square deal for rich and poor alike. …”
He turned to harangue the crowd on his other side. Laurie pulled at Reg’s sleeve. Reg gave a swift repining glance at the froth halfway up his mug, and nodded. They slipped out. The pale street of sky above the blacked-out shops reflected a dim glimmer on the oily wet street below.
“Got away before the collection,” Reg said.
“That’s right.”
“Funny, how some chap’ll get stinking in a pub, and if he carries on in that certain voice, no one don’t listen no more than if he was talking Dutch.”
“I suppose not.”
“Know how I look at it, Spud? Got to get used to people. Sometime we all got to. Mean to say, if it’s not one thing it’s another. Take some other chap, say. Got trouble at home, maybe. Silly muggers sticking their oar in, only making it worse. See what I mean?”
“Yes, I know, Reg.”
“Well, then. What I mean, they say put yourself in the other chap’s place. But what I reckon, it’s more of a knack, see, and not many people got it. Now you got it, Spud. You got it more than anyone I know. So stands to reason, you expect it back, that’s human nature. Well, you’re out of luck, Spud, that’s all. That’s life and you got to face it, may as well face it first as last. See what I mean?”
“Ah, cut it out, Reg, it was just for laughs. Let’s drop in somewhere and have the other half.”
“Over the road’s a nice one. Quiet.”
As they stepped onto the opposite curb, a cloud of warm scent steamed over them, mixed with the smell of cheap fur.
“Hiya, fellers.” The voice was fake Hollywood, spread thinly over urban Wessex. “Where’s the big hurry? Remember us?”
“Ah?” said Reg noncommittally. He peered into the gloom. Laurie felt a swift nudge and realized that the pause had been for appraisal rather than identification. He knew that Reg’s marriage vow was, on his side, intact; what this meant to his conscience was unknown, but Laurie had a good idea of what it meant to his self-respect, and as a talking-point. All this Reg was prepared to offer up in the cause of taking Laurie out of himself. He suspected that the sacrifice wasn’t looking to Reg absolutely intolerable. Embarrassment robbed him momentarily of all presence of mind.
“You guys still fond of dancing?” the girl said.
Reg took a step backward. “Pardon me,” he said formally. “You’re making a mistake, Miss. Me and my friend haven’t had the pleasure. Got to be going now. Good night.”
“Ooh! La-di-dah!” The second girl emerged from the shadows. She was very young, seventeen at most. “Don’t be soppy. No need to dance for a good time.” She giggled.
It wasn’t fair, Laurie thought reluctantly, to leave it all to Reg. “Sorry, girls,” he said. “We’re on our way to a date.”
At the sound of his voice the first girl diverted, suddenly, her attention from Reg to him. He was enabled to see in the gloom the pancake make-up on her bad skin, and the large generous mouth painted over the little mean one. Their eyes met. Then she swung around on her three-inch heel.
“Oh, come on, Doreen, what you waiting for? Sorry, boys, I’m sure. You’re all right, so long as you got each other.” She tittered shrilly. “Bye-bye, both. Enjoy yourselves.”
Slowly, as he steadied his mind, Laurie became aware that Reg was swearing. He was making a speech to the vanishing girls on the lines of “state the alternative preferred, with reasons for your choice.”
“Steady on, Reg,” he said. He managed to keep his voice even, but knew he could not look at Reg even in the blackout, so didn’t try.
“Lost me temper.” Reg fell into step beside him. He, too, looked ahead. “Dirty-minded little cats. Make you sick. Well, we missed a lovely evening with those little bits of sunshine. And how. Lucky you made up your mind quick, Spud. I reckon you’re a better picker than what I am.”
The film of the evening was all singing, all dancing, and in Technicolor; so Reg had taken for granted from the first that there was no other possible film to see. The rest of the hospital contingent was all there too. Laurie was glad to get inside; in the queue his leg suddenly started to ache very badly. It must be the boot, because the pain was in a different place. He supposed it would settle down in a few days. Meanwhile he tried to forget it by attending to the film. The star was young, and highly groomed to resemble in face, figure, and range of expression a pin-up in Esquire. Laurie could feel the men around him soaking her up through the pores. She was the perennial eidolon, the clean pampered harlot, the upper-class luxury article, reduced in some magic bargain-basement to a price within each man’s means. The music had occasional moments of narcotic charm; it was relaxing, when not too loud, like a warm bath with colored bath-salts. Laurie’s mind withdrew, after a time, to a middle distance behind his eyes, where he thought about Andrew. He solved no problems, nor attempted it; he made no plans. He was twenty-three: he received infinite consolation and joy merely from the contemplation of Andrew’s being.
They were about halfway back when the first of the sirens went. First came a single deep moan; then the mounting, ragged chorus of inhuman howls and wails. The bus was old and noisy, and one could not hear whether planes were about; the usual lugubrious voice announced that one was following them home. Shortly after this, when they were nearly there, a new sound began: the tinny warble of the Imminent Danger siren, which always sounded different after dark.
Laurie shoved at the bus with his will, urging it on. Every minute he waited to see fire spring up beyond the hedges: he imagined the bus arriving to find a rescue squad at work, a covered stretcher passing. “All the men okay. Only one casualty. The night orderly, Raynes. …” They reached the gates without incident, two or three minutes later.
As they walked up the covered way, shrapnel rattled like flung stones on the iron roof above them. Something emerged from the background of night noises, a kind of throbbing in the air, a sensation more than a sound at first, then the rhythmic bumbling of a bomber’s engines, getting nearer. A small isolated battery, not far off, began to cough and bark; a searchlight fumbled about among the stars, fingering patches of cloud and dropping them and fidgeting off again.
A couple of nurses whom he knew were on the bus; though he was good for little more than moral support, it seemed kind to escort them back to their hut. As he returned toward the ward he saw that two more searchlights were flicking around. The plane was buzzing now like a fly caught on a windowpane; the guns kept swatting at it. A big lump of shrapnel came rattling and scraping down a nearby roof, and fell just beyond him; he stepped back under cover again. Suddenly a tiny silver cross glittered in one of the beams overhead. At once all the others swooped over and closed in. The pursued mote made for another bit of cloud, like a bird for a bush; they lost it again, but the guns banged more eagerly. It was then, as he looked down for a moment to rest the back of his neck, that he saw Andrew standing out in the grass, unsheltered, looking up.